


A Lame Pun About Cats

by incendiary1 (trycatpennies)



Series: Werecat Stiles [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Foursome - M/M/M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Orgy, Werecats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trycatpennies/pseuds/incendiary1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets turned into a werecat, and goes into heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lame Pun About Cats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> for delighter, because she asked. thanks to hello_mcee for the beta.

"Here, kitty. Here kitty, kitty."

Stiles sighs, and turns out of his crouch, sitting on his ass, his back against the door of the jeep. He checks his phone. He's totally going to be late for class. 

"Come on, kitty. I really sort of have to get to school, there's this chemistry test and--" he pauses. "You know, I'm talking to a cat right now, and I'd love to say that's the weirdest thing that's happened to me lately but werewolves and revenge lizards rank above trying to coax a cat from under my car."

He clunks his head against the jeep and then squawks when he feels fur brush against his hand. He looks down and there's a ginger tufted _thing_ sitting next to him. It's bigger than what Stiles thinks a house cat should be, but hey, most of his experience is limited to Deaton's and to werewolves, so. 

"Hey, kitty," Stiles says, and the cat brushes against his knee, purring. "You're a good kitty, yeah -- oh fuck!"

He snatches his hand back; he's reached out to pet the cat and the monstrosity had fucking bitten him. He curses, sticking his hand in his mouth and glaring while the demon cat slinks off.

Great. Now he's late _and_ bleeding.

-

Stiles wakes up with the taste of copper tangy blood on his tongue and he’s sweating, panting, and the sheets are tangled around his waist. His window is open, curtains pulled aside, nearly torn off their rod. 

He takes a few deep breaths, and it’s not until he goes to wipe sweat off his forehead that he notices the actual blood smeared across his fingers. The smell isn’t some dream remnant. He’s got blood on his hands, under his fingernails, staining his sheets, and now smeared across his face where he’s touched it. 

“What the fuck is happening?”

-

Deaton’s is closed, but Stiles had called ahead and told the vet he needed help with something of the mystical persuasion. He’s going to hope it’s of the mystical persuasion, because otherwise he’s got some kind of somnolescent killing urge on his hands, and that’s just. Well. Bad.

He throws the Jeep into park and hops out, slamming the door and zipping his hoodie. It’s freezing, and he hadn’t grabbed a coat, just washed his hands about eight billion times and then texted Deaton, then bolted from the house. 

As it is, he checks his hands while he walks, inspecting them for any more blood before pushing open the door to the vet’s office.

“Dr. Deaton?” Stiles calls, and he hears an answering shout from the back clinic. He hops over swinging door to front counter and--

Falls flat on his ass.

“Stiles, are you alright?” Deaton is there, pushing the swinging door open and reaching down to give Stiles a hand up.

“Yeah, I think I bruised my ego more than anything else."

Stiles stands up, brushing off his pants and making a mental note to tell Scott he’s really been slacking on the floor sweeping duties. 

"I'm just in the middle of a check up, can we talk in the back?" Deaton asks and Stiles nods, reaching a hand out to push the swinging door open. 

Except he can't. 

His hand won't go, he can't get it within three inches of the door, and he realizes this is why he fell. His body literally stopped before it hit the barrier of the--

"Mountain ash," Deaton says, slowly, and he pushes past Stiles to the other side of the door. To protect himself, Stiles realizes and fuck, what is happening. Deaton’s hesitant when he asks: "Who are you?"

"Uh. It's me? Stiles?" Stiles waves his hand at Deaton, frantic. 

“Try and touch the door again, please, Stiles,” Deaton says, and Stiles tries not to panic because Deaton’s using that same ‘I’m talking to someone who could rip my throat out’ voice he uses on the wolves sometimes. 

Stiles reaches out, and nope. Not even close.

“Mountain ash,” Deaton says, and Stiles looks up at him, eyes wide. 

“But I’m a human,” Stiles says, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, and he remembers the slick slide of blood on his fingers. 

“Not anymore, you aren’t.”

-  
Stiles texts Scott, who texts the pack, and they meet at the train station, gathered on couches and against pillars. And they all stare at Stiles. 

“I’m a werecat,” Stiles repeats, sullenly. Jackson cracks up, the third time he’s done so, each time Stiles has said the words ‘werecat’. “I got bit by this stupid-- I thought it was a housecat! I mean, it was big, but it just looked like a _cat_.”

Just his freaking luck, really. Allison shoots him a sympathetic look and rubs his arm. Stiles blinks at her; he can feel the touch somewhere in his gut, hot. Huh. 

“Will you shift?” Scott asks, and Stiles shrugs, distracted.

“Deaton’s not really sure. His expertise is pretty much you guys. He gave me a few books, and I have some sites that might shed some light, but...”

“Full moon is tomorrow,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yes, thanks. Aware of that. I just don’t want to go crazy and like, eat someone. Which obviously means I can’t be at home, so.”

“We’ll just chain you up here,” Scott offers and Derek glares at him. Scott glares right back, and then continues. “Tell your dad you’re staying with me. Derek’s got us under control, at this point. Or most of us, anyway.”

Jackson growls pointedly and Stiles laughs, but cuts off when Jackson pushes him and Stiles feels the handprint like it’s burned into his shoulder blade. 

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says a little shakily, and he stands, moving away from Jackson, heading up the stairs of the station. If he’s going to be MIA tomorrow night, he has a paper to finish. “Oh, and Derek, your gracious hospitality is most appreciated. What should I bring as a hostess gift? A nice chardonnay? A rawhide bone?”

He hears growls, but he’s already out the door.

-

The full moon is uneventful. Brutally uneventful.

“I turned into a _cat_. A big cat with like, fuzzy ears and a tail. I didn’t want to eat anything!” Stiles whispers frantically at Scott as they sit down at their table in the caf. 

“You ate that mouse, after we unchained you,” Scott points out, and Stiles groans, dropping his head to the table. 

“I purred at Jackson, Scott. Purred at him. God, this is the worst.”

Stiles keeps his head down and he feels Scott rub his back awkwardly, trying for comfort. Stiles head shoots off the table; he feels his cat arch under Scott’s touch. It’s like this weird thing that’s happening since the moon, like he can feel the cat part of him under the human part of him.

And it’s suddenly awake. In like, all the wrong ways. 

Stiles stands up clumsily, and he backs away from Scott, who is staring at him. 

“Dude, are you ok?”

“Yeah. I’ll uh. We’ll talk later?”

He pretty much runs from the cafeteria, glad his jeans are loose enough to hide that he’s tenting them. 

-

The rest of his school day is shitty, lacrosse practice is worse. Isaac checks him, and Stiles spends a full thirty seconds on the grass, trying to will his dick down, and catch his breath. Isaac’s nostrils flare when he helps Stiles up and Stiles flushes, because no excuse is gonna work; he can smell his own arousal as well as Isaac can now. How do the wolves walk around smelling everyone like this all day? 

He speeds home, praises god when he finds it empty, and slams the door to his room, shoving his pants down his thighs and wrapping a hand around his dick. He can feel his ears tuft up, his tail extend and his voice, as he comes, is definitely more cat than human.

-

His books don’t help. The internet fails him. He groans, spinning in his desk chair, and pushes at his dick (still hard) through his jeans. He checks the clock and groans again. He’s shifted, still, ears and tail and little clicky claws (Erica had declared them adorable) and he has about ten minutes before his dad gets home. There’s no way he can stay here and avoid his dad all night. Shit, shit.

He pulls out his phone, taps out a message telling his dad he’s sleeping at Scott’s, and bails out the window, landing crouched on the front yard just as he hears his dad’s car pull in the driveway. 

He lets his ears flick once, twice, and then bolts, eyes a flash of yellow in the reflection off his dad’s car windshield.

-

He’s human again by the time he gets to the train station, and he tugs his hoodie off once he’s inside. He’s sweating bullets, probably from running the whole way here, and he drops the hoodie on the ground and looks around. It doesn’t look like anyone is actually there, which maybe is for the better.

He palms his dick through his pants, hissing. He feels fucking hot all over, and he tugs his t-shirt off too, collapsing onto the beat up couch. The fabric feels rough against his back and he squirms, wiggles really, nearly purring at the feel of it against his skin.

He stretches his legs out and toes off his shoes and socks, and flat out moans when he puts the soles of his feet against cool cement because it feels amazing.

That’s how he is when Derek and the pack come back; slouched as low as he can get on the couch, arching his back into the rough woolen feel of the fabric, with his legs spread, feet planted flat, toes curling into the cement. And his dick tenting his pants, his head tilted back, mouth parted. 

He moans again when Scott touches him, and then whines when he pulls back. He opens his eyes, hadn’t realized he’d even closed them, and the whole pack is staring at him.

“You’re in heat,” Derek says, sounding gruff and panicked. Stiles blinks at him, stilling his arching and grinding and trying to focus his eyes.

“I’m what?” His voice is different, rough and desperate, and he hears someone inhale sharply. 

“In heat,” Derek answers, and Stiles can hear him grit his teeth. “Deaton told us it might happen, but--”

“He didn’t tell _me_ ,” Stiles growls and he feels his fangs lengthen, and the death grip he has on the couch becomes a little deadlier. “What does that mean?” 

“It means you can’t be here,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear the note of concern underneath the annoyance. How sweet, how terrifying. 

“Why?” Stiles asks, and he whines again, hips thrusting up into nothing.

“Because I have a bunch of uncontrollable betas, and you’re practically a dog treat, Stiles,” Derek says, but oh, oh yes. Stiles can _smell_ the arousal hit Derek, smell it off each of them, all of the wolves in the room. 

Stiles blinks his eyes open again, and looks over at Derek, glassy eyed.

“Then eat me,” he snarks and Derek growls and Erica whines and someone yanks Stiles off the couch and onto his knees.

-

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says, and he drops his head between his arms, arching his back into whoever is touching him. He has no idea who it is, doesn’t matter, because whoever it is is screwing two fingers into his ass, well lubed from someone else’s tongue, and there’s come on the floor under Stiles already, but he’s still _hard_ and achingly empty. “No one has fucking _fucked_ me yet.”

Scott (Scott, god, friendship ruined) chuckles and pets at Stiles’ head, tilting it back up, and his dick smears, spit sticky against Stiles’ cheek. 

“Please, Stiles?” Scott pleads, and Stiles goes back to sucking him, the musky smell of Scott familiar from locker rooms and sweat slick sleepovers, from secretive jerk off sessions and from this, from just ten seconds earlier when Scott had thumbed over his bottom lip and Stiles had whined for it. 

He doesn’t know who he’s already sucked off, knows Erica, Boyd and Jackson fled, overwhelmed and banished by Derek. Stiles assumes it’s because they’d hurt him, too new, but Isaac’s there, and oh, that’s Isaac sliding a third finger into him, because Stiles can feel Derek _watching_. 

He whines, pushes back and feels Isaac lick around his fingers in Stiles’ ass. Stiles’ dick jerks and he shifts, and Scott comes, pulling out as Stiles’ fangs graze his cock. He splashes come across Stiles’ cheek and chin and lips, gasping. 

Stiles needs someone to fuck him, needs something in him, something to make him stop aching, make it stop hurting, scratch the itch. He could take more fingers, someone’s cock, something--

“Shh,” Isaac says, and Stiles drops to his elbows, hardly realizing he’d said anything out loud. “All yours.”

Stiles is suddenly _empty_ and his next exhale is a choked sob, until he feels hands on his hips, soothing and strong and he opens his eyes enough to watch Isaac wrap himself around Scott, which means it’s Derek behind him and--

“Alpha means I get first claim at a bitch,” Derek says, and Stiles whips his head around, but Derek interrupts him before he can protest. “You came in here begging to be fucked, Stiles. You’re nothing but a bitch in heat.” 

Derek’s smile is feral and Stiles whines, wants to roll over, belly up and bare his throat, but this is better. Stiles isn’t a beta, he’s a bitch. 

When Derek pushes in Stiles howls with how much it burns and how much he wants it. His cheek is mashed into the cement floor, wet now with come and spit and probably tears, and he should want Derek to stop, but what he wants is another dick in his mouth, so he can be totally filled. 

“Ask me,” Derek growls, and he’s buried balls deep, Stiles can see, can glance between his own spread knees and see where Derek’s balls hang heavy below his own, pulled up tight. “Beg for it, bitch, you know you want to.”

“Fuck me, Derek, please fuck me,” Stiles pants, and Derek’s digging claws into his hips now, raking them over his sides and then Derek’s fucking him, brutal and hard and messy. Someone must have tongued him really well, because the noise Derek’s dick makes when he fucks back in is obscene. 

“Gonna make you loose for me, boy,” Derek is saying, and he bends himself over Stiles’ body, breath and teeth hot on the back of his neck. “Gonna fuck your hole open and then keep you here for me and my pups, let them fuck you after I breed you.”

Stiles comes again, splattering the floor with it, and Derek snarls in his ear, bites down on the skin of Stiles’ shoulder, pounding into him harder, sharp, jabbing thrusts. When Derek comes, he’s half pulled out of Stiles’ ass and it gets him inside and out, come across his asshole where Stiles already feels raw and wrecked and desperate for more. 

“So good, bitch,” Derek says, and he laves his tongue over the bite on Stiles’ shoulder before pulling back. “Isaac, you’re up.”

It should be Scott, if they’re following hierarchy, but Scott’s still spent, his dick half hard and interested, but Isaac’s the only one who hasn’t come yet, his dick curved up and leaking precome. Stiles whines, high in his throat, and drops as far as he can, tilts his ass up and presents so Isaac can palm him open, slide behind him and fuck into him, Derek’s come already slicking the way. 

“Oh god,” Isaac says, and Stiles can smell him shift, back and forth from human to wolf, the fingers on his hips changing to claws and back. Stiles should be worried, should be scared, but he’s getting _fucked_ , long, slow thrusts, and he can’t care about wolves right now. He’s just going to be a bitch, and let them fuck him and fill him, and his cat purrs and arches and wholeheartedly agrees. 

Stiles is still hard, doesn’t matter that he’s come three times, because apparently if he’s going to go into heat and need to be fucked, his body is at least going to let him enjoy it. He pushes back into Isaac’s thrusts, needing them harder, needing them deeper. Isaac chokes out a moan and picks up the pace and Stiles groans, pleased.

He can smell Derek, still, overwhelmingly, and when he looks up, Derek’s watching him, lazily palming his cock, soft against his thigh. Stiles’ mouth waters, and he pants, open-mouthed and desperate and Derek smirks at him. 

“Can’t get enough, can you, bitch?” Derek asks and Stiles moans, clenches around Isaac, who howls and comes, hips jammed up tight against Stiles’ ass, coming deep in him. Stiles pants, head against the cement, and keeps his ass up when Isaac pulls out (too fast, god) and he waits, and wants. 

“Someone-- please, I need--” Stiles stammers, and he looks pleadingly at Derek, then at Scott. Isaac’s curled up on the sofa, looking blissed out and satisfied and Stiles growls, impatient. 

“Give me just another minute, man,” Scott bites out, words rough around his fangs. Stiles watches Scott touch himself, get himself hard and ready. Stiles wants to offer to help, he’d suck him, could lick at Scott’s balls while he jerks off, anything to get him hard and into Stiles’ ass, but he can’t do anything except tilt his ass higher, spread his knees out and watch, waiting to be mounted. Scott gets there on his own and moves behind Stiles, thumbs over where he’s open and waiting and ready and then -- hesitates. “Do you... is this position still ok?” 

“Seriously?” Stiles groans and he half shifts, claws extending. “Just fuck me, Scott.”

“You heard him,” Derek answers as well, and Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but Scott slides into him, surprisingly adept at this, one long, steady press until he’s balls deep and it takes Stiles’ breath away when Scott starts fucking him. Stiles looks up at Derek when he keeps talking. “You know this isn’t one time, right Stiles?”

Stiles whines, and Derek’s eyes flash red, and Stiles drops his eyes to Derek’s dick, hard again, and he feels his own dick twitch. 

“You’ll be our bitch whenever I want, now,” Derek continues and Stiles closes his eyes, breath hitching on each of Scott’s thrusts against his prostate and fuck, where did Scott learn to fuck. He’s breaking Stiles _apart_. “Not just when you’re in heat, Stiles. Whenever we ask, whenever one of us needs a fuck. Scott could bend you over a bench in the locker room, come in your ass. Isaac could get you to blow him in the bathroom, on your knees and gagging for it, because a good bitch pleases his pack.”

Scott comes, rough jerk of his hips and as soon as Isaac’s pulled out Derek’s cock replaces Isaac’s, faster than Stiles can handle, and he claws at the cement, howl catching in his throat.

“Derek--” Stiles starts, but Derek cuts him off, wraps a hand that’s more claws than fingers around Stiles’ dick and jerks him roughly. 

“I like fucking you while you come, bitch. Love the way you clench down on my cock, tight like a fucking vice,” Derek says against his neck and Stiles arches into it, wants to fuck back on Derek’s dick and forward into his hand. “Can’t wait to fuck you whenever I want, drag you back onto my dick, wake you up with it. Send you to school with a fucked raw throat, come soaked briefs. Let all the pups smell you all day, see how long it takes before they pin you against the nearest flat surface and use you.”

Stiles comes, shoots into Derek’s hand, comes harder than he has in life, his body wrung out with it, too strung out for too long, and Derek growls against his skin, fucking into him harder.

“Good bitch, come on my dick, Stiles,” he’s saying, and Stiles can’t hold back the pained groans he makes as he comes down from his orgasm and Derek keeps fucking him, keeps palming Stiles’ (finally) softening dick, his hand big and clawed around Stiles’ oversensitive junk. “I’m going to make you smell like me. Like sex and come and me. And you’re going to beg for me, every. Single. Time.” 

-

He wakes up sore and curled around Derek on a mattress in the back of the station, both of them still smelling like sex and sweat. He’s got a blanket tugged up to his ears, but he’s naked. Naked and currently human, and definitely no longer in heat. 

Derek’s awake, boots off but otherwise fully clothed, and he sets aside the book he was reading when he feels Stiles move against him. 

“You can stay here,” Derek says,. “Get some more rest. Scott texted your dad from your phone, said you were with him.”

Stiles nods, and he stretches, hissing in pain when the movement causes part of him to hurt that haven’t exactly hurt before. Like his ass. 

“Do you remember?” Derek asks.

“Yep, all of it,” Stiles answers, and he manages to work himself into a sitting position, wincing. He has bruises on his ass, his hips, and his elbows and knees are still sore, though any scraping must have healed overnight. “Every single embarrassing, begging moment.”

He stops when Derek puts a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm, and then shoves the blankets off him. Stiles puts up a token fight to stop him, but Derek’s already seen him naked (and begging and coming and oh, jesus) so he doesn’t give it much of an effort.

Derek checks him over, carefully. Examines each bruise with carefully pressing fingers and runs hands over the still healing claw marks on Stiles’ hips.

“So, uh,” Stiles asks, in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the fact that Derek’s touching him. “Where’s Scott and Isaac? And the rest of the pack?” 

“I sent them away,” Derek answers, gruff, and he thumbs over Stiles’ inner thigh, next to his dick, and Stiles can smell Derek’s arousal as well as he can feel his own. Fuck.

“Wanted me all to yourself?” Stiles jokes, and Derek growls, and drags his thumb up the underside of Stiles’ dick, knuckles grazing his balls. Stiles feels hot all over and he glances down, where Derek’s crouched over him, still fully clothed, his eyes locked on Stiles’ now fully hard dick.

“You’re mine,” Derek answers, as if Stiles is an idiot, and then smirks when Stiles’ dick twitches. “I’m the alpha.”

“You’re the alpha,” Stiles repeats, rolling his eyes. He groans when Derek licks over the head of his dick, though, because he’s only human. Or, well. Not anymore.

Derek sucks him carefully, drags his teeth around the head just enough to make Stiles shiver, and then swallows around the head when he sinks down till his lips meet his fist, and Stiles is totally getting his first blowjob from Derek Hale, what is his life. He can smell Derek’s cock, even through layers of denim, and all he can hear is the blood rushing to his head.

“Derek, I’m gonna--” Stiles says, and he flushes, because Derek doesn’t answer, just digs what are now definitely claws into Stiles’ thighs and Stiles comes, hips bucking into Derek’s grip. 

“Mine,” Derek growls, and he’s crawling back up Stiles’ body, one hand undoing his belt, the other pressing Stiles into the mattress, claws curled against his shoulder, carefully not cutting into skin. Stiles can smell himself, but when Derek finally gets his pants undone and his dick out, all he can smell is _Derek_ and he groans, his soft dick jerking painfully. 

“Derek, shit,” Stiles starts, and Derek silences him with a biting kiss, fangs against Stiles’ lip and his tongue taking over Stiles’ mouth. Derek’s got a hand working between them, and Stiles can’t even get it together enough to help before Derek’s coming, all over Stiles’ stomach and soft dick, hot come and dominating alpha scent while Derek growls into the kiss. 

Stiles huffs out a breath when Derek collapses on top of him, still mostly clothed and still kissing Stiles, though a little gentler than he had been when he came. He doesn’t stop touching Stiles either, running his hand over Stiles’ shoulder and chest, palming his hip. 

“So, is this gonna be a thing,” Stiles manages to ask, once Derek’s stopped kissing him long enough to breathe, dropping onto his side. He’s still curled protectively around Stiles, and the whole room reeks of sex, jeez. “The sex, cuddling, thing?”

“Yes,” Derek answers, his tone leaving no room for argument. Not that Stiles wants to argue. 

“What about the orgies thing?” Stiles asks, and Derek bites gently into Stiles’ skin, right at his shoulder, where the skin is thin. 

“Definitely yes,” Derek answers, and Stiles can feel his heart pick up, knows Derek can hear it too. “What kind of a bitch would you be if you didn’t serve your alpha’s pack?” 

Stiles thinks of all the things he said last night, what Derek had said, the taste of Scott, the feel of Isaac’s hands at his hips-- 

“Not a very good bitch at all,” Stiles answers, and Derek grins against his skin.

“Good boy,” Derek says, and Stiles shivers.

-


End file.
